Alcohol and Illusion
by Alpha Vegetable
Summary: ME2, FemShep. Silly piece of nonsense that has been rattling around in my head for a while. What happens when Shep knocked back a few before chatting with TIM? Or, rather, what could happen? Quite unrealistic.


**Alcohol and Illusion**

_Author's Note: Since alcohol or some similarly intoxicating beverage is so easy for Shepard to obtain in this new MEverse, I wondered what would happen if Shepard had just been on a bender before talking with the Illusive Man. Ordinarily, Shepard is the master of words, but what possibilities could possibly arise in this scenario? Here is my attempt to find out what. Edit: TIM is a real tough one to keep in character. I ended up mostly using quotes._

"The Illusive Man wishes to speak with you in the briefing room, Commander," Kelly Chambers smiled cheerfully at Shepard.

Shepard smiled back just as cheerfully as she slipped through the portal. With slightly staggering steps, Shepard saluted Mordin casually on her way to the briefing room. The salarian paused in his work for a fraction of a second, darting glances over her, probably mentally cataloguing her various symptoms – flushed complexion, fatuous grin, unsteady carriage – and shrugged, going back to his work. Shepard's ailment resolvable with painkillers and time – unlike the small epidemic of scale-itch aboard the Normandy. Mordin drew air up his nostrils sharply at the thought.

After mistaking the wall for the door a few times, Shepard successfully made it into the briefing room, and luckily for her, pushed the correct holographic button to lower the table and activate the communication scanner. She slipped a little on the table/floor surface, and was endeavouring to improve her standing balance as the pixels around her arranged themselves to form the image of a guy lazing in an esoteric chair before the impressive view of a dying star. Shepard drew herself up proudly and waved.

"Hi, there, Illusss… Illyushive… Hard-to-find-guy," she greeted him, much more merrily than was her wont.

TIM's eyebrows drew together in puzzlement. "Shepard. Are you feeling all right?"

Shepard scowled suddenly. "We're not good enough friends to talk that way. We're not friends. I haven't even met you, really. I don't even know why you have freaky eyes. Did you have a swoop bike accident?"

Again, TIM's eyebrows moved, this time upwards as he noted her petulant expression. "This is not the best time to go on a bender, Shepard. Did you miss the repeated times I told you that the fate of the galaxy lies upon us?"

Shepard shook her head slowly. "The fate of the galaxy lies on _me_. All you do is sit in that chair like a chimney and try to yank my strings."

"And the very reason that you're alive is because I spent the time and money to resurrect you. You'd think you'd be at least a little grateful."

"What is it that you're smoking?" Shepard queried, pouting. "I should be grateful you brought me back to life so you can send me on a suicide mission? Look, I'm drunk, but that still doesn't make sense."

TIM's features resumed their regular configuration. "Yeoman Chambers informed me that you were succumbing to the stress of the situation. Let me tell you that self medicating is not a good idea."

"Who's self-mediquating? The bartender gave it to me," Shepard shrugged. "It's not like I have a lot of options here. And I've started to notice something. Apart from you, only Bat-air-ri-yans smoke. Oh, wait, there was an elcor on Omega, too. That was just weird. I didn't even know where exactly he put it, and I really didn't want to, either. He really should have worn a hat if he wanted to be different. A pretty one."

"You must have learnt throughout your career as a soldier how valuable self control can be, Shepard. I would hate to see you forget that lesson to the detriment of the entire human race," TIM drawled through a mouthful of smoke while gesturing slightly with the glowing end of his cigarette.

"How many times have you tried to give up smoking, Manny?" Shepard flickered her eyebrows up and down pointedly. "I never see you but you're puffing like a… an industrial waste factory," she pronounced carefully. "You see, I've seen what happens to smokers. First you enjoy the hit and the weight loss. Next to no time, you're hacking up a lung and your nails are permanently disgusting. And the fact that you need a mood-altering drug crutch at all times is seriously degrading my respect for your stress resilience. I wouldn't trust you to hold the fort, no way."

"This is no time for petty grudges, Shepard," the megalomaniacal genius said calmly. "The fate of the galaxy is at stake." Although he had already foreseen this interview would not go as he had expected, he intended to use this opportunity. Shepard seemed a lot more forthcoming in this state – albeit confused, but he was a smart enough man to puzzle out the pieces. The more you understood how your puppet moved, the better were the moves you made him do.

"Nooo," Shepard drawled, poker-faced. "The galaxy's in danger? Why did no one tell me? It seems like something _someone_ should have told me. Like every single day. Maybe even every hour. No, that would just piss me off. Oh, wait, it _does_."

"I understand that you're under heavy pressure, Shepard. No one else has been resurrected and utilised quite the way you have. It's a big responsibility, and I can understand how it can seem to be too much."

"Hm?" Shepard lifted her eyes from examining her nails. "No, saving the universe is no biggie. I've done it before, and if I screw up, it's not like anyone will be around to care or point fingers."

"That's quite a practical attitude, if not the one I'm hoping for," TIM commented.

"It's the getting up in the morning and looking in the mirror that gets to me," Shepard confided. "Someday I just know I'm going to wake up with horns, or cloven hooves, … or _mandibles_."

"Mandibles?" TIM repeated questioningly.

"Like the Cerberus logo," explained Shepard. "It's a diamondy thingie with mandibles. The first time I saw it I thought it was a turian symbol. I was puzzled for like half a minute when I found out it was a human supremacist weirdo cult club. You know, you really should change it. Every time I see it, I think 'turian with mandibles' and I bet I'm not the only one. And then there's the _name_."

"Will I regret asking what you mean by that?"

"I looked on the extranet. I hated mythology in school, yanno. It was all about dudes getting it on with their sisters, or their mothers. Seriously. But, yeah, Cerberus. The name of Death's dog, who guarded hell. In other words, he kept people _in_ hell. He only let them out when he was tricked. So that's another thing you could fix. Perhaps you could change it to God or Jesus. Didn't they resurrect people?"

"I rather think people would think I had an inflated opinion of myself if I called myself God."

"Like they don't already?" Shepard smirked. "You're like a chess player, picking out his pawns and setting them up to get eaten by knights and crooks. You think you have the right to do what you like to people because they believe the stuff you say to them. It's like you're a conman, but instead of stealing people's money, you steal their _souls_."

"Don't forget I claimed yours from the afterlife," TIM returned in restrained enjoyment.

"I think you'll find it hard to keep your grip on it," Shepard threatened with a scowl. Past doubts bubbled up through the alcohol haze in her brain.

"I get the impression that you want to say something to me, Shepard."

"Oh, you bet I want to say something. I don't know what you're up to, but it's not going to work."

"I want to save the human race."

"Well, that might happen," Shepard admitted, "but I'm getting a bit suspicious about your intentions for me."

"You've been suspicious of me from the start. Why the change?" TIM enquired.

"I don't appreciate being set-up," Shepard accused, folding her arms across her chest for a moment before swaying and extending her arm again for balance.

"I explained to you before that it was necessary to bait the Collectors into hitting that specific colony. It was for the good of humanity… and the galaxy."

"Not what I meant," Shepard interrupted him. "I don't know what you're trying to do with Kelly and Jacob, but you'd better stop it now. My love-life is not your business, get it? You can stop pimping out your operatives to me, 'cause I won't bite. And you have lousy taste. Kelly keeps yapping about all the attractive aliens, and Jacob is a guy's guy, not a ladies guy. Not that I like them, either, but he's a few grades lower than what I usually go for. Unless…" Shepard's eyes took on a distrustful gleam, "unless that was your plan all along. You want me to be turned off sex forever, didn't you? Or were you… are you interested in me? As more than a source of Prothean information?"

Shepard was still somewhat befuddled, you understand, despite her lucid moments.

"Yes, Shepard. I spent two years and four billion credits on a booty call." The absolute monotonicity of his reply signified both amusement and considerable disgust.

"Well," Shepard said after a pause, "this is awkward."

"Go sleep it off, Shepard. I'm sure this will wait for a few more hours," TIM decided, pressing a button to cut the connection. After all, the Collectors had set this trap, and were likely to wait patiently till their bait came to the lure.


End file.
